ProTest
by KillerGirl
Summary: Life in the WWE isn't all it's cracked up to be. When you close the door, will you ever want to open it again? Jeff Hardy, plenty more make appearances. Pairings later. Angst, language, drug & alcohol use, eventual slash.
1. I Cannot Give Anymore

**Disclaimer: I don't own anyone in this story. The timeline is authentic to the best of my knowledge. The theme of this story is based loosely on real events, though creative liberties are obviously taken. This work of fiction isn't to be considered a statement of fact on the real lives of anyone mentioned.  
**_Lyrics credit: "Here to Stay" by Korn  
_

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**  
Spring 2003**

_This time, taking it away  
I've got a problem with me getting in the way  
Not by design  
So I take my face and bash it into a mirror  
I won't have to see the pain  
This state is elevating as the hurt turns into hating  
Anticipating all the fucked up feelings again_

I take another pull from the bottle and roll my head from side to side, trying to loosen my neck.  
_Fuck this shit._  
I got home less than eight hours ago and, when I dig the clock out from under a pile of dirty clothes, I see that I have to leave again in less than 18. Barely a full day to wash some clothes and try to sleep, and I can't even think about relaxing long enough to ease some of this pain. Just fucking great.

Glaring at the bottle, I urge it to work faster. _If this fucking vodka would just kick in already, maybe I can play a little_. Another deep drink, reducing the liquid inside to the halfway mark. Half a bottle of vodka and my back still feels like this. I should be surprised, but I'm not.

"Welcome to my life," I mutter aloud to the empty house, raising the bottle in a toast to no one. When I don't get an answer, I slump back on the couch and stare into the darkness.

Another hour passes, and the pain is barely dimmed.  
What am I doing to myself? I'm twenty-fucking-five years old, and I've been wondering that very thing for at least the last three. Maybe more. I'm too young to feel this old.  
Fuck this shit. I'm not wasting the next 18 – no, wait, 17 hours drowning in a bottle.

With a grunt, I haul myself to my feet and gather an armload of laundry. Might as well get some of it done while I can, huh?

Once the clothes are tossed in the washer, I head to the fridge and glance inside. Beer. Ketchup. Ew, those Chinese leftovers have been there for like two weeks. Fucking gross. That milk, too…that's totally disgusting.  
Ignoring the leftovers, I upend the rest of the gallon of milk into the sink and let it drain. When the spoiled remains are firmly en route to the sewer system, I draw a glass of water from the tap and set the gallon jug under the stream, letting it fill. I chase two pills with the glass of water and set about cleaning out my now-empty milk jug, letting it fill with cold water once I'm sure the last bit of sour milk is gone.

After a little more rummaging, I clear a spot on the floor of the art room and take inventory; all my art supplies are at hand, an old sweatshirt is nearby, the laptop's switched on and iTunes is ready to go, my gallon of water is cold…yup, I'm all set.

Let's rock.

With the non-business end of one paintbrush between my teeth, I dip another in blue paint and, trying to ignore the pain, start painting. The music helps me zone out some, and my kneeling position over the canvas on the floor actually seems to loosen my back up a little. I actually lose myself in the painting, until a telltale tingling in the small of my back draws me back to reality.

For the first time in three days, I smile a real smile.

A glance at the clock – almost sixteen hours 'til I've gotta leave again. I stand and stretch, enjoying the tingling in my back; it moves as I move, traveling side to side and creeping up some. Finally, finally the pain is fading. And now the more I stretch, the less I'll hurt.  
It moves further up my back and into my shoulders and neck, and at the same time the tingling starts behind my eyes. I lean back and smile again.

_The hurt inside is fading  
This shit's gone way too far  
All this time I've been waiting  
No I cannot grieve anymore  
For once inside awaking  
I'm done, I'm not a whore  
You've taken everything and oh, I cannot give any more._

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I know what's coming.  
I knew what was coming the second I got popped for a piss test. I knew I'd get the call to come in for a "meeting."

JR looks at me, seeming almost sad.  
"That's the third time you've come up positive for amphetamines," he tells me, like I don't already know.  
I'm too tired to care. I look back at him, not saying a word.  
"I have no other option; it's rehab or the door," his voice drops a little. There's no one else in the office with us; I don't know why he's acting like he's being discreet. "Will you go to rehab?"

Drug rehab…or the door. Happy fun group meetings with lots of "Hi my name is" for using X on what little personal time I have? Or the door, which leads to a healthier back, a normal schedule, and time to sleep? Wow, tough one there.

"I don't need rehab," I finally tell him, doing my best to keep my voice level. I like JR. I respect him. I won't be a bitch about it.

JR sighs, and this time he really does look kinda sad.  
"I'm sorry, Jeff," he shakes his head slowly. "I wish you had a different answer for me to that."

I keep watching him, not saying a word.

"As you are in violation of the company's wellness program, your contract is considered voided as of April 23rd."  
He pauses, giving me a chance to say something. I have nothing to say.

_I'm done, I'm not a whore  
You've taken everything and oh, I cannot give any more._


	2. This is Who I Really Am

**Disclaimer: I don't own anyone in this story. The timeline is authentic to the best of my knowledge. The theme of this story is based loosely on real events, though creative liberties are obviously taken. This work of fiction isn't to be considered a statement of fact on the real lives of anyone mentioned.****  
The comments in this chapter about wrestling the circuit, however, are entirely true. ;)**  
_Lyrics credit: "The Kill" by 30 Seconds to Mars_

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**Spring/Summer 2003**

Nothing's ever a secret in this business. Nothing.

In the six hours that elapsed between leaving JR's office, getting on my plane, and arriving back in North Carolina, I found the voicemails I knew would be there - tons of voicemails, and when my voicemail was full they sent text messages. They all asked the same question.

"What the fuck?"

I honestly debated chucking my cell phone in the nearest trashcan, maybe out the window of my car as I sped down US-1, away from the airport and away from everything I'd come to despise and back towards home. The last thing I wanted to do was sit around all night dealing with my co-workers…well, former co-workers…and I knew answering everyone's messages would keep the phone to my ear well into the wee hours.

I returned one phone call that day and then switched my phone off for the rest of the night once plans were set.  
And then, on the first night of my freedom, I fell asleep with a smile on my face for the first time in years and slept for eighteen hours straight.

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Matt came by the next day. I still don't know how he managed to talk his way out of the house show; I didn't ask then and it's a moot point now.  
I remember the look on his face so clearly…so very clearly. There was no disappointment, there was no reproach; he looked sad, and he looked accepting. And we talked through the afternoon, talked about old times and talked about where things had changed.

"I can't do it anymore," I told him quietly, staring at the smoke rising from the end of my cigarette. "The love's gone and all I feel is pain. Too much pain."

He hugged me when I said that, and I nearly set his hair on fire when I hugged him back, cigarette still in hand. We laughed then like we laughed when we were young, when wrestling was still the alpha and omega of our lives.

After almost eight years seeing what the business was really like, my dreams long shattered, I smiled that night thinking how wrestling had become my theta.

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"Thanks, I really appreciate it," I politely reply, phone in one hand and paintbrush in the other. "But I'm just not taking any bookings right now." The voice drones on in my ear and I have to fight the urge to sigh out loud. The calls keep coming no matter how many times I say no, and I know damn well the word's out everywhere that I'm not working.

Yet they keep calling. And I'm still polite to each booker, each promoter, and I don't know why I don't just tell them to fuck off. After the debacle with the Ring of Honor show in July, I don't want a thing to do with this shit.

_Come break me down  
Bury me, bury me  
I am finished with you  
Look in my eyes  
You're killing me, killing me  
All I wanted was you_

I finally manage to end the call without cussing anyone out, my calendar still blissfully free of bookings but my creative mood shot. These last four months have done wonders for my back and sometimes I think I might want to work a match or two a month. The thought usually passes when I snap back to my senses and remember how things really work on the circuit – the filthy locker rooms, the egos, bookers who disappear come payout time, the endless driving from armory to gymnasium to warehouse, the disrespect, the _egos_…yeah, fuck that.

Shaking my head, I toss the phone vaguely in the direction of the couch and wander over to look out the front windows. Fall's coming; you can see it in the color of the sky. These months off haven't just done wonders for my back, they've done wonders for my mind too. I can keep my own schedule; I can work on whatever creative outlet catches my fancy for the day, and, most importantly, I can sleep.

No, wait. The most important part is not having to worry about random piss tests anymore.

It's nice. Kinda lonely, but…nice.

_I tried to be someone else  
But nothing seemed to change  
I know now, this is who I really am inside  
I finally found myself  
Fighting for a chance  
I know now, this is who I really am_

After watching the sun set, I wander over to the laptop and flip it open. One thing I haven't adjusted to yet is _so much_ solitude; after that many years on the road almost constantly, it occasionally gets to me to not have people around all the time. I like my peace & quiet, sure, but, well…I miss some of those jackasses.

Adam's weekly email is waiting for me, grinding my connection to a crawl while it downloads the dozens of photos of blue-eyed blondes with big boobs he's thoughtfully attached. I laugh and light a joint, waiting for the damned thing to load. Why he feels the need to send me his spank material I'll never know. I guess it's some sort of tradition by now, considering I've been getting the same types of emails from him about every 7 days for months. A short note from Matt reminding me he'll be home tomorrow, some random gibberish from Shannon that looks to mean he wants to come over and drink with me soon…I'm probably the only person on the planet who can decipher that kid's emails… a picture of a fluffy grey kitten and no text whatsoever from Rhyno, and a half-dozen other bits and pieces of my former life finally make their way onto my trusty laptop.

I'm glad they're not forgetting me. I know how many people I left behind and forgot about, living that insane schedule and all, and I figure I'll become one of those left-behinds at some point.

For now, though, the cacophony of chaos my friends felt fit to send my way via email is enough to get me back in that creative frame of mind again.

Two pills and an hour later, my paintbrush is back in hand, and I am happy.

_I know now, this is who I really am_


End file.
